Countdown, p.13
Countdown, page 13
The driver in front slips on a set of night-vision goggles.
The Peugeot’s headlights switch off.
It feels like he and Amy are rushing through a dark tunnel, alone, unable to see a thing, not quite knowing where they’ll end up. But he’s still smiling, thinking of her, knowing he can’t underestimate her, not ever.
His iPhone vibrates.
Jeremy stops smiling.
He takes it out of his coat pocket, turns the screen so Amy can’t see it, notes the incoming phone number. Most calls at this time and place he would ignore, but not this one.
The vibration continues.
From his pocket he takes out an MI6-issued combination earbud and microphone, which he places in his left ear, the one farthest from Amy.
He answers the call.
“Windsor.”
Jeremy instantly recognizes the voice at the other end. “Is your mission proceeding?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are we certain Rashad Hussain will be there?”
“Quite certain,” he says.
“And is that American woman still with you?”
He waits just a moment too long. The voice returns, louder and more demanding.
“I said is that American woman still with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get rid of her,” the voice says. “Tonight. No excuses, no exceptions. Understood?”
The rear interior of the car is barely illuminated by the iPhone screen, and Jeremy can just make out her shape. The woman who saved his life twice yesterday—is she looking in his direction, or out the window at the darkness?
“Yes, sir,” he says. “Understood.”
He disconnects the call and Amy says, “Important?”
“Somewhat,” he says. “My boss, wanting to know if everything is proceeding on track.”
With a light tone in her voice Amy asks, “And anything else?”
He doesn’t bother agonizing over what he says next. “Yes. He wants me to get rid of you. It seems that besides the CIA smoking you, you aren’t welcome by my folks to come along.”
“Nice to be popular,” Amy says. “So when are you dumping me? Tonight? Later?”
He turns to look out at the dark landscape speeding by, recalling all they’ve experienced over the past few days.
“Never,” he says.
Chapter 39
IN THE passenger seat of the dark blue Fiat Doblò Cargo van, Rashad Hussain says, “My watch says ten more minutes. How about yours?”
Behind the steering wheel, Marcel Koussa looks at his wrist. “Mine says nine.”
“We’ll go with ten, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
The interior of the van is dark. Like Marcel, Rashad has on a set of night-vision goggles—Russian-made gear that was stolen off the secret battlefields of eastern Ukraine. Though he imagines he hears voices behind him, he ignores them and continues to look through the windshield.
They are parked among low brush and saplings at the end of a stretch of cracked pavement belonging to an abandoned runway from after World War II, waiting for a private propeller-driven aircraft to arrive. Earlier Marcel had walked both sides of the bumpy-but-still-usable runway, putting down infrared lights that will be visible only from the sky by their pilot from Kazakhstan.
“Tell me, Marcel, have you ever been to America?”
“Not even once, sir.”
“So what will happen in New York in a few days, it has no concern for you?”
Marcel says, “I only wish it were London.”
Rashad shifts in his seat. “At one time it would have been London. Another time, Berlin. But like it or not, New York is the capital of the world’s leading empire. And that is where I will strike. You see, Marcel, I am this century’s Gavrilo Princip.”
There is no answer. Rashad is not surprised. He goes on.
“Gavrilo Princip was the assassin who killed the Archduke Ferdinand and his wife in Sarajevo, in June of 1914. Two shots. That’s all. And within four years, that one simple man had triggered the collapse of so many empires: Ottoman, Russian, German, Austro-Hungarian. Not bad for a simple Serbian nobody, eh?”
Marcel says, “Impressive, sir.”
“And I, in the next few days, will shatter their precious New York City. Which will cause that empire to withdraw, to collapse. And once New York and Washington fall, then London, Paris, and Berlin will fall soon afterward. The Americans are the dangerous glue that holds them together. Even my father’s friends and businesses in the Kingdom. They, too, will be swept away.”
“Then…then, what sir?”
Rashad says, “I don’t know. Which is why I will succeed. I make no demands, issue no proclamations, announce no victories. I just do what must be done. And then a new empire will rise—a new caliphate—and I will die a happy man, knowing I had a hand in its renewal.”
“How are you sure, sir? That a caliphate will emerge?”
“Who in Europe and elsewhere has more discipline, energy, devotion to religion and families than our brethren? After the West withdraws and collapses, they will take up the challenge—of that I am sure.”
Marcel says, “You will be remembered forever.”
“Perhaps,” Rashad says, looking at his watch. “But at least I will be known as a much more merciful man than Gavrilo Princip. His actions led to the death of at least seventeen million people. My actions, well, if there are a hundred thousand dead by this time next week, that will be a difference, will it not?”
“That it will, sir—that it will.”
Rashad says, “I believe it is time.”
Marcel says, “It is, sir.” His aide removes a cell phone and dials a preprogrammed number that rings once. Marcel then disconnects the call.
Rashad thinks he hears a thump somewhere, but he ignores the sound. He slips on his night-vision goggles, switches them on—
—and flashing lights appear on the runway, welcoming in his fellow warriors, here to get paid, of course, but also to deliver something oh so very blessed and important.
In a week’s time his mask will finally slip away, and the whole world will know what one man with funds and vision can do.
Just one week.
Chapter 40
WE ROLL in darkness to a small, worn-out building that looks like it was once some sort of storage facility. Our blacked-out Peugeot slides in next to the lead car and dims its interior lights. I step out with Jeremy. The driver—still wearing night-vision goggles—leads us past armed guards to a side door, where we duck through a curtain, and here we are.
There’s lots of cigarette smoke and bottles of water on a dirty counter, but no buffet table. Things have certainly gotten serious. Victor, who has quickly changed from civilian to paramilitary clothing, says, “Progress is quickly being made. Let me get you up to date, Jeremy.”
I stand next to Jeremy and say, “Just so we’re clear, Victor, even though we’ve only known each other for about thirty minutes, I’m the lead officer here. So yes, I welcome your briefing. As does Jeremy.”
Again a flicker of a look between Victor and Jeremy, and I sense I’ve won once more.
Good for me.
“Very well,” Victor says. “We will tell you both. Here, if you please.”
“Here” is a concrete wall where a large map is secured. A long table holds communications gear—three CCTV monitors and four computer monitors, with hard young men sitting in front of them. There are about a dozen other armed men in full-battle rattle, with black boots, fatigues, belts with holstered pistols, helmets, and black balaclavas covering their faces. All of them carry my old friend, H&K MP5 submachine guns.
Several of the men have rolled up their balaclavas to smoke.
All of them are ignoring me.
And I’m ignoring them right back.
At the map Victor taps a narrow rectangular symbol and says, “This area south of Lesigny was a dispersal field used by the French Air Force prior to World War II, then by the Luftwaffe, and since 1952, it has been abandoned. We are”—he lowers his hand, taps again—“here, about two kilometers from the airfield. According to our information, Rashad Hussain and an accomplice are located here, at the northern end of the sole runway.”
“What information is that?” I ask. “How do you know Rashad and his accomplice are actually there, and not a young man and woman having fun in the back of a van?”
Victor steps away from the map and points to one of the CCTV monitors. There, in ghostly black and white, is an overhead view supplied by a drone. In the middle of the screen is the shape of a van, with the white thermal images of two figures sitting inside.
“We have been watching them, without a break, for more than three hours,” Victor says. “Ever since they left Paris.”
“Good,” I say. “Where’s the transfer going to be? What do you know?”
Victor says, “There’s a private plane coming into this runway within fifteen minutes. There are three Kazakhstan nationals in that aircraft, escorting the device. One of those nationals is working for us.”
“And their plan?”
“Once the aircraft lands and taxis to the end of the runway, there will be a…what you say, a handoff. The device in exchange for five million euros’ worth of uncut diamonds. Once we have confirmation that the exchange has taken place, we will strike.”
I go back to the map. “Where are your units?”
Victor joins me. “Here…we have a blocking force in place to prevent the van from escaping. We also have a section here…and there…keeping armed surveillance on the van.”
“And what happens to the aircraft?”
“Sharpshooters will take out the tires and engine, preventing it from taking off after the transfer has taken place. At the same time, we will be neutralizing the van and keeping it in place while the flanking units move in and seize the two men and the device.”
I take in the little symbols, remember all the times I’ve viewed similar maps before, all the times I’ve placed similar symbols representing heavily armed and aware men and women, ready to do violence in seconds.
Victor’s placement of his forces looks sharp and professional. The armed men standing nearby look like a pack of attack dogs, ready to slip their leashes and go on the hunt. The surveillance view of the van, combined with Victor’s information about the one man from Kazakhstan working for the French, makes everything seem like a well-tied, put-together operation.
“Victor?” I ask.
“Oui?”
I step back from the map, look to him, then to Jeremy.
“This doesn’t make sense,” I say. “It’s going to be a disaster.”
Chapter 41
MARCEL’S PHONE chimes. He glances down in the dim light and says, “Aircraft right on schedule, sir.”
“Good,” Rashad says. “Once they land, make sure the infrared landing lights are switched off. No need to advertise our business tonight, eh?”
“Sir,” Marcel says.
Rashad lowers the side window, hearing a few night birds and the low hum of an approaching aircraft. For some reason he thinks of his father, and how for his few Saudi friends at the time, having a father with a private airplane meant comfort and luxury. But for Rashad…a private airplane was a pricey mobile jail, taking him to exclusive schools and clubs where he could be of no trouble to his father. Funny how those memories still burn at him with anger.
The engine sound grows louder, then fades as the aircraft heads to the far end of the runway.
The little landing lights on either side of the runway keep up their rhythmic flashing, like they’re saying,
Come to me.
Come to me.
Come to me.
He looks through the windshield and makes out the shape of the aircraft, admiring the skill of the pilot, who lands in a long, gentle swoop. Through the night-vision goggles the engine glows a hot, ghostly white as the aircraft slows down, the propeller still spinning, as it starts taxiing in their direction, then wheels about in a neat 180-degree turn close to this end of the runway, where he and Marcel are parked in a wide dirt area, a narrow road leading off behind them.
The airplane halts.
A door opens on the right side of the fuselage and the ghostly figure steps onto the tarmac.
“Kill the runway lights, send the signal,” Rashad says, “and then let’s get over there.”
Marcel types a command into his phone, then turns on the Fiat Doblò’s engine and flashes its headlights twice. Marcel shifts the van into Drive and they move out to the runway, Rashad feeling the wheels of the van get on top of the tarmac.
Just a few minutes more.
Chapter 42
WHEN I earlier met Victor, he had the cheerful look of a typical French bureaucrat who slides into work at 10 a.m., takes a two-hour lunch with a bottle of vin ordinaire, and heads home around 4:30 p.m.
But right now, in battle gear and heavily armed, he looks like he wants to shoot me dead here in this little building, with the confidence that the men under his command would back him up by saying it was an accident.
“What do you mean ‘a disaster’?” He nearly spits out the words.
I’ve faced men like Victor before: higher-ups who can’t believe that someone beneath them has a different view or a different opinion. And, in this case, a different way of using a restroom.
I go back to the map and say, “This is like a bad techno-thriller, don’t you think? Abandoned runway. Van waiting for the drop-off. Mystery plane coming in from Kazakhstan, carrying not only a Russian-made suitcase nuke but an informant who secretly works for you and gives you everything in great detail.”
It gets so quiet I can hear the gentle whir of the fans coming from the CCTV monitors. I slap at the map. “Here. Runway stuck out in the middle of fields and woods. One road leading in and out. Where’s the escape route or alternate exit? And where’s the security? This van supposedly has Rashad, an accomplice, and what—five million euros’ worth of uncut diamonds? And just two guys in it, sitting on a fortune? Doesn’t make sense. It’s way too dangerous…for them.”
Save for one person—Jeremy—the faces of the French intelligence officers and their boss, Victor, are looking at me with open hostility.
Yeah, I figure.
“The flight is coming in from Kazakhstan, right?” I ask.
Victor’s voice, clipped and formal. “Correct.”
“All right,” I say. “Do you know what kind of aircraft?”
Victor is still staring at me. “Cessna. The 172 model.”
I nod. “All right. Based on the distance from here to there, and the average cruising speed of a Cessna 172…” I pause for a moment, then say, “You’re looking at a full twenty-five hours of flying time. That doesn’t include stops for refueling, rest, refreshments, or anything. That’s twenty-five hours, carrying a weapon of mass destruction, betting you won’t be rousted by customs officials or local police—not to mention hoping the engine doesn’t conk out or bad weather grounds you.”
Jeremy looks like he’s going to say something, but keeps his mouth shut.
“And then there’s TRIPWIRE,” I say.
Victor looks like he doesn’t want to ask the question, but he does. “What’s TRIPWIRE?”
“Three modified WC-135 aircraft,” I tell him, “either flown by the Air Force or NATO. Originally they were ‘sniffer’ aircraft, sampling the atmosphere, looking for isotopes and radioactive materials associated with nuclear-bomb tests. These new aircraft have a next-generation detection system, looking for unexplained airborne gamma-ray sources. Like aircraft smuggling in nuclear devices.”
I glance at the map and back at the silent crowd. “If you have an aircraft inbound carrying a nuke, then it’s passing through TRIPWIRE’s area of operations, and if it’s detected, that aircraft is forced down within minutes. I don’t believe these smugglers would use an aircraft. Easier to use a truck or a shipping container. So I don’t believe your intelligence. This is either a hoax or a trap.”
Victor looks to his crew like he’s seeking reassurance.
“Thank you for your input, Madame Amy,” he says. “But the operation will proceed.”
What a surprise.
“If you say so—but I’m coming along.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not possible.”
I say, “You say you’re about to seize a nuclear device to be used against my home country. I’m coming along on this operation.”
“No, you’re not,” Victor says. “Jeremy…yes. He’s been with me a long time. But not you, Madame Amy—you will stay behind.”
I reach into my rear waistband, pull out my 9mm SIG Sauer, point it at Victor.
“I’m not really a stay-behind kind of gal.”
Chapter 43
MARCEL PULLS the van up to the left side of the aircraft’s fuselage. Rashad removes his night-vision goggles, steps out to join him on this pleasant evening. The Cessna’s engine is idling and the spinning propeller kicks up a breeze that feels refreshing.
Marcel goes up to the man from Kazakhstan, who has moved to the tail of the aircraft. They talk for a moment, then Marcel runs back.
“We are ready,” he says.
Rashad ducks into the Fiat, pulls out a leather case, hands it to his trusted associate.
“Make the exchange,” he says.
A minute later Marcel returns. At the open door of the Cessna, two men are working to remove a heavy, bulky item, rectangular in shape and equipped with carrying straps.
Seeing the package being removed, Rashad takes Marcel to the side of the Fiat Doblò, where Marcel unlocks the sliding side door.
“Do we still have enough time?” Marcel asks.
“Allah is on our side,” Rashad says, not bothering to check his watch. “Never doubt, ever again.”
Marcel slides open the door, and a familiar scent comes to Rashad, and there are voices as well.
“God is great,” is muttered, and Rashad thinks, God, and his agent here on earth.
